One-Eyed Dean One-Shots
by jublke
Summary: A series of stand-alone stories about Dean, a hunter who is blind in one eye from birth. AU set early in the series. Chapters 3 & 4 are Teen!Chester; Chapter 6 is Wee!Chester. Rated T for swearing.
1. Face Plant

Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun. At least, it's fun for me. Maybe Dean will eventually get some pie, who knows?

AU, set early in the series. One-shot for now.

A/N: I always told myself that I wasn't going to do this, but here we are. I probably put more of myself in this story than almost anything else I've written - I gave Dean my own disability. And yes, I chafe at calling it a disability too.

* * *

Sometimes Sam forgot that Dean was blind in one eye. Sure, his brother tended to cock his head to one side, always insisted that Sam stand by his left shoulder when they were walking together, and demanded that they sit on the right side of the theater, but these were things you could easily chalk up to eccentricity, not disability. Sam knew it had taken Dean a long time to learn to drive, but you'd never know it now. Once he had mastered the skill, his brother had excelled at it. And if the man hated to parallel park the Impala or ease her into tight parking spaces, no one thought much about it. Classic car owners tended to be overprotective of their babies.

In Dean's mind, Sam knew, he saw himself as able-bodied; calling Dean visually-impaired, or worse, disabled, was likely to land you a right cross. But there were some things that even the most capable one-eyed person would find challenging, not that his brother would ever admit it. These were the rare times hunting when Sam was uncomfortably reminded of Dean's limitations.

This hunt - like most - had started out smoothly before going pear-shaped. It wasn't until the last few minutes - when Sam had tossed the disposable lighter into the grave and Dean had fixed him with a relaxed smile - that everything had gone to hell. Despite his brother's constant head-swiveling as he scanned the old farmhouse for threats, the spirit of a vengeful child had managed to attack on Dean's blind side, barreling into his jean-clad legs at thigh level before going up in a burst of smoke and flame. Dean had hit the ground hard enough to see stars, a fact that Sam learned about only because his concussed brother was too dizzy and disoriented to realize that he was babbling out loud.

Sam knew that anything that potentially affected Dean's remaining eye could trigger severe anxiety in his older brother. He'd been gentle when tending the gash on Dean's left cheek, a clean cut that thankfully didn't require stitches. Back at the motel, he'd helped his brother out of his outerwear, gathered his toiletries for him, and let Dean have the first shower. But now that Dean was freshly washed and clad in a clean T-shirt and sweats, he'd turned away and curled up in silence. Cradling his swollen left temple in a pack of ice, Dean stared dully at the television and refused to engage in even the simplest of conversations, despite Sam's best efforts to draw him out. Sam had even tried his puppy dog eyes. No dice.

After enduring half an hour of silent treatment, the younger brother glanced at the clock on the nightstand and tried a different tactic. "You want me to get some dinner?"

Dean shrugged. He readjusted the ice pack; Sam caught a slight wince.

"Is your headache worse? I really should check -"

"'m fine." His brother's tone brooked no argument.

"Your eye okay?" Sam ventured, sitting on the other bed with his arms folded, tapping his foot nervously.

Dean removed the ice from the left side of his face. His good eye was practically swollen shut, but that didn't stop him from pinning Sam down with a glare and a frown. "Just peachy," he snapped.

"Dean -"

His brother held up a hand. "We are not talking about this." He rolled over and closed his eyes.

Sam unknotted himself and began to pace. "We should get you checked out, Dean."

"'m fine. Just a concussion. You know the drill." Dean refused to look at him. "Wake me up in an hour."

 _Sure, that's fine for a fully-sighted Winchester_ , thought Sam. _But you're not fully- sighted, are you, Dean? You have to take care of your remaining eye._ It took every ounce of self-control Sam possessed not to say the words out loud.

He thought about how his father would have handled the situation. John was worse than Dean about denying anything he didn't want to see. Dad would have checked Dean over for a concussion, but he would likely have moved them on to the next hunt before his brother had any time to recover. _Knowing Dad, he might even conveniently forget that Dean's blind in one eye._ Sam suppressed a snort.

Dean rolled over and glared at him. "Thought you were getting dinner."

Sam smiled; at least Dean had initiated conversation. "I am. What do you want?" He stood and added the dirty flannel button down back over his dust-stained long-sleeved T-shirt. He hoped he didn't smell too bad. He hadn't had time to shower yet, not with worrying over Dean.

His brother shrugged. "No girly food. Cheeseburger?"

Sam didn't try to push a salad on him like he so often did. If Dean thought he could choke down a burger without throwing it up, Sam would bring him one. Maybe even include a slice of pie. "Back soon." He placed a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder as he walked by.

And stopped mid-stride. Sam turned around, worry crinkling his wide forehead. "Dude, you okay? You're shaking."

"F-fine," Dean muttered, clenching his jaw in a effort to stop his teeth from chattering. "Ice is making me c-cold."

Sam took the bag of ice from him and felt his heart twist. He wasn't convinced that the chill was the culprit. "Maybe we should order in." A diner sat directly across the parking lot; Sam could be out and back in fifteen minutes, he was sure of it. _Is that too long to leave him?_ He chewed his lip and studied his brother. The older man was curled into a tight ball. Sam could detect his trembling even through the tangle of bedding. "Let me get you another blanket."

"Sam." He heard the warning tone, Dean's personal reproach to let him know that he had stepped into his personal space one too many times.

Sam ignored his brother and pulled the worn gold bedspread from the other narrow bed. "Here." He tucked the blanket around his brother.

"Go away." Sam barely heard the muttered phrase because Dean had thrown a pillow over his head. If he ignored his brother's words, focusing solely on the tone, he could practically touch Dean's fear. Fear for his sight, fear of abandonment. Not for the first time, Sam wished he'd kept in better contact with his brother after he'd left for Stanford. He'd been so angry at their father - and everything that the man had represented - that he'd just walked away, not realizing that he'd unfairly lumped his brother into Dad's mess. When Sam had attended Al-Anon to support Jess when her brother had entered rehab, he'd unexpectedly learned something about himself. In the highly dysfunctional Winchester family, Sam had been shoved into the role of the black sheep as much as Dean had been forced into the position of the good child, the family peace-keeper. It wasn't Dean's fault any more than it was Sam's.

Sam sat down on Dean's bed and massaged his shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean." A shudder rolled through his brother's body and Sam could have sworn he heard a sniff from beneath the pillow. "I'll find some place that'll deliver, but you might be stuck with pizza tonight." He could feel his brother tense again, but Sam persisted. "Relax, Dean. I'm here. It's okay. You're going to be all right."


	2. Emergency Room

Still not mine, still don't own.

My sincere thanks to sabidoche and Juvdelink25. Your nice comments inspired me to add another chapter. Thanks also to those who have favorited or followed this story, which I guess is a series of one-shots now.

A/N: I am not a medical doctor. Again, this is more than loosely inspired by something that happened to me. Sorry, Dean. I owe you a pie.

* * *

They were driving down a rural Iowa road, a pothole-laden disaster that was undeserving of the designation of a state highway. Dean had been navigating around crater-sized gaps in the asphalt for the last hour, his mouth tightening into an ever-thinner line. Sam was about to ask Dean if he wanted him to take over driving, when his brother abruptly veered to the side of the road with a wild shriek of brakes.

"Dean?" Sam asked cautiously. His brother stared ahead with a puzzled expression, the space between his brows crinkling in confusion.

Sam spoke again when Dean didn't reply, his heartbeat slowly increasing into a steady jackhammer pace. "You all right?"

His brother turned to regard him, green eyes unfocused. His blind eye drifted slightly to the right, something that happened when Dean was sick or tired. "I don't ... I don't know." He turned to stare out of the Impala's windshield.

Whatever Sam had been expecting his brother to say, it wasn't that. He ventured a tentative hand and gently grasped Dean's flannel-covered elbow. "What's wrong?" He fought to keep his voice level. No sense in spooking Dean. With the Winchester penchant for trouble, almost anything could have happened.

"I ... " Dean swallowed hard before turning back to Sam, eyes glassy. "I can't see. Out of my good eye."

Sam felt as though his world had bottomed out, his stomach dropping like it did on a roller coaster, light fading in and out as sound stretched and contorted, before he was slammed back into this new and uncomfortable reality.

 _Stay calm, Sam_ , he admonished himself. _However scared you are, Dean must be terrified._

"Can you see anything?" he asked his brother.

Dean nodded, even that gesture unsteady and unsure. "It's like ... it's like looking through a dirty windshield. With water spots. I thought maybe it was raining, but ..."

 _It's not._ Sam looked at the gorgeous autumn day, all azure sky with puffy white clouds - _cumulus humilis_ , his brain supplied helpfully - and he silently cursed the day. The Impala's windshield was clear, save the mangled remains of a few unfortunate insects.

Sam blinked against the unexpected wetness. Dean had always feared leaving the hunt this way, he knew. His brother would rather go out in a blaze of glory, even if the phrase evoked Jon Bon Jovi instead of Metallica.

Sam knew he had to be strong for his big brother. "Okay. Let me call Bobby. We need to find the nearest hospital."

* * *

By the time that Sam had pulled into the parking lot of the closest decent medical center, Dean claimed that his vision had cleared. "I'm fine now, Sammy," he wheedled. "Let's go."

"Dean." Sam put the car in park and turned to face him. "We have to get this checked out. It could be something serious."

His brother frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly, the fight seeming to have left him as quickly as it had come.

Dean's easy compliance worried Sam further. "Are you having other symptoms?" he asked, noting the tight angle of Dean's jaw, a hand massaging one temple.

His brother narrowed his eyes at him. "Headache," he admitted, his tone barely above a whisper.

"Okay." With effort, Sam tamped down the panic rising in his chest. "Be sure to mention that when we hit triage."

Dean glared at him through lowered lids. "I'm not an idiot. Besides, I'm sure you'll tell them everything, Samantha."

Sam flushed at that, because of course he would. Dean was already out of the car and slowly stalking toward the entrance to the ER before Sam could catch up with him.

* * *

"Well, your visual acuity in your left eye is excellent," Dr. Morgan said, pushing back his rolling chair to write something in a notepad on his desk. After the emergency room staff had determined that Dean was not, truly, an emergency - and Sam had endured a paint-stripping glare from his brother - the ophthalmologist on call had asked Dean to come to his office next door for a proper eye exam. The older Winchester had endured a series of tests, including lying nearly flat in the exam chair while the doctor used a rather large magnifying lens and a seriously painful light to study his retinas. From his chair in the corner, Sam watched as the older man scribbled the word "aphakia" on his notepad. "How did you lose the lens in your right eye?"

"Congenital cataract," Dean replied stiffly. "They ... uh ... removed it when I was a baby." He sat uncomfortably in the exam chair, both arms and legs crossed, looking exhausted. Dean hated talking about his eye, Sam knew. He studied the clench of his brother's jaw and hoped that Dean wouldn't crack a tooth.

The doctor nodded, his pen flying over the paper again. "How's the headache?"

"Better." The emergency room staff had pumped him full of some seriously nice drugs before sending him off with Dr. Morgan.

"Anyone else in your family suffer from migraines?"

Dean's gaze fell to the corner. He indicated Sam by thrusting a shoulder in his direction. "My brother."

Sam's brow crinkled. "I've never had a migraine like that," he told the doctor, sounding defensive. "I've had auras before but nothing ..." He shook his head. "Nothing that rendered me blind." Dean flinched at the words and Sam gave him a pained smile. His brother rolled his eyes.

Thankfully, Dr. Morgan missed this entire exchange, as he was scribbling in his notepad again. "Retinal migraines typically only affect one eye. They're caused by a vascular spasm in or behind the affected eye." He studied Dean over the tops of his lenses. "The headache started about thirty minutes after the symptoms began, correct?"

Dean grunted his assent. Sam could almost see the thought bubble rising over his brother's head. _Damn Winchester luck._ His brother wrapped his arms tighter across his body, and Sam could feel his protective instincts kicking in.

"How likely is it that this will recur?" Sam asked.

The doctor gestured widely with his hands. "Hard to say." At Dean's affronted expression, the man's tone softened. He handed Dean a business card. "If they continue, you should consult with a neurological ophthalmologist. Dr. Jeffery is one of the best." His brother pocketed the card as the doctor ushered them out.

"Thanks for your time. We really appreciate it," Sam babbled, shaking the man's hand, as Dean pushed silently past and walked out the door.


	3. Not Perfect

Not mine, don't own.

Again, I am loosely basing this story on something that happened to me as a kid. Thank you, Dean, for helping me to exorcise my own demons. I owe you a lifetime of pie now. Maybe even some cookies.

My thanks to those who have commented, favorited, or followed previous chapters. This one marks my first time writing a Wee!Chester / Teen!Chester. Sam is about 13 here, which would make Dean around 17.

* * *

Dean burst into the Winchester family's latest fleabag motel and threw down his duffle. Kicking off his boots, he shrugged out of his plaid flannel overshirt and dropped it over one of two chairs at the small table. Sam sat at the other, surrounded by a pile of books and papers. As the cloud of dust settled, Sam glanced up from his algebra homework and smiled at his big brother.

"So, how'd it go?" There was a small _ding!_ and Sam jumped up. He gestured at the cup of instant macaroni and cheese as he removed it from the microwave. "You want some? I left you a couple of cups." He looked around and frowned. "Where's Dad?"

Dean shook his head, a gesture that clearly hurt because Sam caught the wince before Dean could hide it.

"Hey." Sam set the instant food aside and studied his brother. The older boy's cheeks were flushed and his eyes glittered with something ... pain? embarrassment? anger? ... that Sam couldn't readily identify. "What's wrong?"'

Dean gave an uncharacteristic sniff which set all of Sam's mental alarms on high alert. "N'thing, S'mmy," he mumbled. "Jus' need a show-"

"Dean James Winchester!" John thundered into the room, shoulders squared, eyes wild. "I am not done talking to you!" The older hunter grabbed Dean by the shoulders, spun him around, and shook him. "What do you have to say for yourself?" Sam read fury in every line of his father's posture and he found himself shrinking away, even though - for once - the anger wasn't directed at him.

Dean's eyes dropped to the floor. His voice emerged so small that Sam had to strain to hear him. "'m sorry, sir."

John gave the boy a final shake before he began to pace around the small room. "You're sorry? Sorry for what? For disobeying my orders? For your failure to cover me? Or for letting the wendigo go free to kill more people?" He stopped pacing and glared at Dean.

"Dad, I -" His brother's voice quavered, and Sam felt his own heart constrict in sympathy.

"No, Dean, you listen to me. I need a man out there, a man I can count on! Not a lazy, spoiled brat who can't be bothered to come when he's called."

His brother began to shake and Sam felt his anger rising. John had no right to treat Dean this way. Whatever had happened out there tonight, Sam was certain that his father was being unfair.

"Dad, you can't talk to Dean like -"

John and Dean both turned and snapped in unison, "Stay out of it, Sammy!"

The older hunter continued his tirade, pointing at his oldest son with venom in his eyes. "People are going to die tonight because you didn't back me up. This isn't some kind of kids' game, Dean. This is war. Clearly, you can't do this job. I was a fool for even thinking you could." As Dean flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears, John swore and stomped to the door. "Now, I have to clean up your mess."

There was an uncomfortable silence after the door slammed. Dean simply stood there, arms drooping, looking like he might collapse on the floor at any minute. Sam couldn't remember the last time that his brother had appeared so defeated. He walked over to the older boy and put a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched.

"Hey," Sam said. His brother wouldn't look at him and Sam could feel his own heart rate accelerating. He fell back on training. "Are you hurt?" His hands began to gently pat his brother down. Sam fully expected Dean to pull away; when he didn't, it simply confirmed what Sam already knew. Something was wrong. But Sam's curious fingers couldn't find anything amiss, so he had to settle for escorting his brother to the shower and bringing him a clean set of sleep clothes.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sam had finished his math homework and had moved on to English. He'd just about put the final polish on an essay comparing Romeo and Juliet with the latest pop music super-couple when Dean emerged from the bathroom in a billow of steam.

"Hey," Sam greeted. "Long time, no see. You ready for that mac 'n cheese now?"

Dean grunted an affirmation and sat down heavily on the bed near the bathroom. Normally, if their father was out, Dean slept in the bed closest to the door so that he and Sam didn't have to share for once. But Sam doubted that Dean wanted to risk Dad's ire again tonight. If the man came home in the wee hours of the morning, the last thing he'd want to find was Dean asleep in his bed. Sam wished - as he did every day - that his family had a real home.

It wasn't until Dean sat at the table across from him, slurping down two bowls of macaroni and cheese while drinking a can of soda, that Sam noticed the bruising.

"Dean! What's wrong with your face?"

His brother looked up. "What're you talking about?"

Sam pointed to his own cheek. "There's a bruise running down the entire right side of your face." He winced. "Man, that's gotta hurt. I'll get you some ice. What happened?"

As he grabbed the ice bucket, Sam noticed the panicked expression on his brother's face. Dean's eyes were darting about the room. When he didn't answer, Sam stopped and stared at him. "Dean?"

His brother's eyes cut to him briefly before dropping to the floor. Sam stiffened as realization dawned. A renewed fury at their father burned deeply in Sam. How dare he make Dean feel guilty for this!

"You didn't see it, did you?" Sam said softly.

"Sam -" It was a warning note, a message to Sam to back off.

"You ran into a tree or something and that's why you were late to meet up with Dad." Sam looked to his brother for confirmation, triumph at reading Dean flashing in his hazel eyes.

Dean stood, anger flaring back at Sam. "You are not telling Dad that, you understand me?" The threat was implied.

Sam blinked at his older brother. "He doesn't know?"

Dean shook his head, winced, and raised a hand to his right cheek. In addition to the bruise, his face was beginning to swell. "You - can't - tell - Dad," Dean hissed out, pain clearly etched on his face. Sam read embarrassment there as well.

"Dean, it wasn't your fault. You're blind in that eye. Dad can't blame that on you." The look his brother gave Sam was so haunted that Sam found himself blinking back tears. "Dean," he said softly, "you can't blame yourself either."

He took a step toward his brother and ventured a hand on the young man's bruised face. When Dean didn't pull away, Sam's fingers deftly prodded the bruise as he checked Dean quickly for a broken cheekbone. Their eyes met, and Sam gave his brother a sad smile. Dean would never forgive himself, Sam knew. But their father had laid that foundation of self-loathing. Sam wanted to punch something. He fought down feelings of rage and tried to focus on his injured brother instead. Once he withdrew his hand, Dean pulled away and dropped onto their bed, immediately curling into a protective ball.

"Nothing's broken. I'm going to get you that ice now, okay?"

The nod was almost imperceptible, but Sam caught it. When he returned with a fresh bucket of ice, Sam filled a plastic bag and wrapped a clean washcloth around it. He dug around in the med pack until he found the Advil and took out three gel-caps. Filling a glass with water, he brought the supplies to his brother's bedside.

"Dean," he said, shaking his brother gently.

His brother roused slowly, blinking blearily at Sam. "How long was I out?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Sam studied Dean's eyes and decided that his pupils were close enough to the same size. Dean's blind eye didn't react properly to light under normal circumstances.

"Just a few minutes." As Dean sat up, Sam placed the pills in one hand and the glass of water in the other. "For the pain," he clarified.

Dean gulped down the medicine. "Thanks, Sammy." He stood too quickly and wobbled on unsteady feet. Sam was right there.

"Dean. You need to take it easy."

Green eyes blinked at him. "Dad's gone, Sammy. I dunno when he'll be back. I gotta -"

"Sit down." As Sam pushed Dean back down on the bed, he could see the surprise and frustration in his brother's eyes. Last summer's growth spurt had left him almost as tall as his big brother. "Whatever you gotta do, I can handle it." Sam folded his arms and gave his brother a look.

Dean rolled his eyes, wincing as he did so. "You are such a little bitch. Gonna make a fine housewife someday." He scrubbed at his right temple and Sam handed him the misplaced ice pack with a frown.

"And you're being a stupid jerk. Let me help."

"Fine," Dean spat out. "I was going to clean my guns and check the salt lines."

Sam's lips curved into a small smile. "I can do that."

* * *

Later that night, as both boys settled into their shared bed, Sam spoke into the darkness. "How's your face feeling?"

Dean groaned sleepily. "Like I ran into a lamp post. Let it go, Sammy. 'm tired."

Sam swallowed. He knew Dean was touchy about this, but he had to make his brother understand. "Dean, it's not your fault. Could have happened to anybody."

The older boy growled, but it was without heat. "Anyone who's blind in one eye. Seriously, Sam, just let it go already. I don't wanna talk about this." Dean rolled over so that his back was to his brother.

"No, what I mean is, everyone has something. I've got asthma and you have your eye -"

"And Dad's perfect." Dean's tone was bitter.

"Dad's not perfect, Dean, or we wouldn't be living in a motel! Look," he blew out a deep breath before continuing. "I just want you to know that you don't have to pretend to be perfect for me. I'm not Dad, okay?"

The room was so still that Sam could hear his brother swallow in the dark. "Thanks, Sammy." After a pause, he added, "Good night." The _I love you_ went unspoken, but Sam heard it anyway.

"Good night, Dean." _I love you, too._


	4. Not Perfect: Part 2

Disclaimer: I do not own _Supernatural_. If I did, it would be very boring because I'd have them retire and get normal jobs.

I wrote this piece, a sequel to the last chapter, _Not Perfect_ , for stepanzas2, who wanted to see how John reacted to Dean's injury. I'm always a little leery of writing John, but I appreciate the fine beta skills of Fanpire101, who is helping me overcome my fear of Papa Winchester. Thanks, Fanpire101! Any remaining errors are mine.

My thanks as well to sabidoche, Juvdelink25, and stepanzas2, for your comments on the previous chapter.

* * *

Sam woke to the sound of snoring. In the ray of light peeking around the curtains, he could just make out his hulk of a father, curled on his side, fully dressed except for his boots. A fifth of Jack lay by his right hand. _A bad night_ , Sam surmised, wondering if the wendigo had eluded him after he'd returned to the hunt.

He rolled over to study his brother, but Dean wasn't there. Sam padded over to the bathroom and pushed open the door. "De'?"

His brother looked up, and Sam saw his green eyes widen in the mirror. His brother's blind right eye appeared more bloodshot than normal, and a livid reddish-purple bruise ran down part of his right cheekbone. As Sam took in the small sponge in his brother's right hand and the tiny bottle of tan liquid in the other, a mix of emotions crossed Dean's face.

"What're you doing?"

Dean returned to applying makeup to the bruise. "What does it look like?" he growled softly, as if erasing half of his face was a reasonable idea. Stopping once again, he turned to regard Sam. "You need to get ready for school."

Sam tipped his head and dropped his shoulders. "Dean." His brother's jaw twitched in response, and Sam could feel the worry leaping into his features. _Bitch-face_ , his brother called it. _Well, too bad._ "You can't go to school looking like that. Your face is really swollen. Maybe you should just stay home -"

Dean's sliced a hand through the air, ending with his fingers to his lips. "Don't wake Dad!" he hissed.

Sam folded his arms. "Dad needs to know about this, Dean. He's gonna find out anyway."

"No, he's not. And you -" Dean thrust a finger in Sam's direction and snapped at him. "Damn well better keep your mouth shut."

* * *

Dean might have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for gym. His second to last period of the day began with warm-ups, moved into sprinting, and ended with a quick game of basketball. Dean's team was down by two points when the end of class bell rang.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, Dean moved toward the locker room, feeling slightly dizzy. _Maybe playing basketball the day after bashing my face in wasn't such a great idea. I need some water._

"Good game, Richards. Nice shot, Fowler." The coach nodded in Dean's direction. "Need to step it up there, Winchester." An odd look crossed the older man's face. "Dean, come with me." His eyes bored into his student. "Now."

Dean stared at the blotch of makeup on his wrist and swallowed hard. "Yessir." _Shit!_

The coach clamped a hand on Dean's shoulder and maneuvered him away from the basketball court. Dean could feel himself trembling under the man's iron grip.

 _Pull it together, Winchester,_ he chided himself. _You're better than this._

But he honestly didn't feel well. The hard lines of the school blurred and swayed, wavy edges of bricks and glass and wood, and Dean had to concentrate just to keep himself vertical.

Expecting to find himself in the coach's office for a dressing down, Dean startled when he realized that he was in the nurse's office, sitting on a cot. His coach was talking to the nurse, and apparently had been for some time.

"I'm going to call his parents," the coach said, and he exited the room before Dean even had time to protest.

The nurse held a thermometer to Dean's ear with one hand as she took his pulse with the other. "How're you feeling? You gave Coach Reynolds there quite a scare. He thought you were going to pass out." She set aside the thermometer and strapped a blood pressure cuff to his arm.

Dean swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. "'m fine," he mumbled. Blowing out a slow breath, he tried to focus on not throwing up. "Could I have some water?"

Once she'd read his blood pressure, the nurse reached over into the mini fridge and handed him a bottle.

"Thanks." He took a tentative sip.

"That's quite a bruise you've got there," she said, studying his face. "You want to tell me about it?" Her voice, carefully neutral, rang every alarm bell in Dean's mind. _Stay out of trouble, stay off the school's radar, you hear me, boy?_

Dean sipped the water slowly and tried not to wince as she prodded his cheekbone. "I ran into a lamp post," he admitted. The nurse made a non-committal hum. "I'm blind in my right eye," he continued, rambling as his nerves got the best of him. "No one hit me, if that's what you're thinking."

"What I'm wondering," she said candidly, staring him in the eyes, "is why you felt the need to cover this up." She dabbed at his face with a damp paper towel, wiping away the rest of the makeup.

Dean looked away.

"Is someone hurting you at home? You can talk to me, Dean. I can help."

Dean thought of wendigos, shapeshifters, and werewolves, and shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said, trying desperately to think of the right way not to make this situation any worse. "I ran into the lamp post because I didn't see it. I was embarrassed. Because of my disability." Dean choked over the last word, his face flushing a flaming red.

Coach Reynolds poked his head back in. "Boy's father will be here soon." He studied Dean. "Next time you're hurt, son, you let me know, all right? No sense in trying to hide it." He walked over and placed a fatherly hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing gently. "If you ever need anything, Winchester, you can talk to me."

Dean nodded. The nurse, sensing the young man's discomfort, eased him down so his head rested on the cot. Exhausted and spent, Dean curled up on his left side and began to drift in and out of sleep. The school nurse covered him in a blanket.

It wasn't long before he recognized the low rumble of his father's voice in the adjoining office. If he concentrated hard, he could just make out the words.

"... didn't know anything about it. We went bird hunting yesterday. Must have happened then, but he never said anything. I went into work last night. Dean's momma's passed and I work late hours to support him and his brother. I didn't see them leave for school this morning."

Dean, fully awake now, pondered if his father would remain so calm once they left the school grounds. He seriously doubted it.

His dad walked into the nurse's office with the vice principal. "Son, how're you feeling?"

Dean wondered when he'd get to the real questions. _Son, how did you screw up so badly? What in the hell were you thinking?_

He sat up slowly, blinked his eyes, and tried to focus on his father. "Just a headache," he mumbled.

The nurse regarded John with a scrutinizing eye, and Dean pictured her opening up a case against his father with Child Protective Services. "I haven't given him any pain medication, since we have no medical authorizations on file. But with your consent -"

John nodded, cutting her off, and the nurse handed Dean his half-drunk water bottle and two Tylenol.

The vice-principal shook John's hand. "We appreciate you coming down here so quickly, Mr. Winchester. I'm sure Dean is in good hands."

The school nurse frowned, and Dean felt his stomach clench. John caught his eye, indicated the school nurse with a tip of his head, and raised his eyebrows before lowering them.

 _Look what you did._

* * *

John waited until they had pulled out of the high school parking lot. Dean was surprised that he lasted that long.

"Care to explain yourself, Dean?" The words were clipped and tight.

Dean stared at his hands. "'m sorry, sir."

John shook his head, barely containing the fury. "Do you have any idea how close that was? What if your school hadn't been able to reach me? That nurse has child welfare on speed dial. Do you want to be separated from Sammy?"

Dean looked up, eyes wide. "No, Dad, of course -"

"Dean, I trust you to keep your brother safe when I'm away. What you did was reckless and inexcusable," John thundered.

"Dad, I -" Dean's face reddened as he struggled for composure.

"Damn it, Dean! What in the hell were you thinking? Where is your head? Why can't you ever do what you're told?" His father slammed a fist on the steering wheel.

"I did!" Dean cried, eyes bright. "I hid the injury the way you taught me to, so that no one at school would notice."

John's nostrils flared. "Look how well that turned out." He shook his head and frowned. "I never once told you to hide an injury from me, Dean James." The words, low and cold, felt like a slap.

Hearing his middle name, Dean swallowed hard. "I didn't tell you about hitting my head because I knew I screwed up! I knew what you'd say. That I'm not fit to be a hunter." A tear slid down his cheek; he quickly batted it away.

John sighed. "Son, we've talked about this. You've got a serious disadvantage as a hunter. Hunting's hard enough with two eyes." He pulled the Impala into the parking space in front of their motel room and turned to look at his son. "But if you want to keep trying, I'm willing to teach you. You're going to have to work twice as hard. Give up your free time. Drop out of school. Are you willing to make the sacrifice?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Sam Winchester paced in the schoolyard, waiting for his big brother to pick him up. It wasn't like him to be late. He remembered Dean's swollen cheekbone from this morning and hoped nothing bad had happened. His gut told him otherwise.

Finally, he heard the Impala's rumbling engine. Dean sat in the passenger seat looking spent, makeup gone, holding a pack of ice against a vivid purple bruise.

Sam frowned at him. "De'?"

Leaning over the steering wheel, his father replied, "Clear out your locker, Sam. We're leaving town and we won't be back."

Sam nodded, opened the back door, and threw his backpack in before sitting down. "I've got everything I need right here."

"Good," his father said, driving away from the school and pulling into traffic. "I'm going to take you boys a few towns over, get you settled in. Been hearing reports of some spectral activity around there anyway."

Sam studied the interplay between his father and Dean, but he couldn't quite sort out the subtext. Dean drooped toward the door, as if he was too weary to hold up his head. Dad seemed, well, not exactly angry. Determined maybe. Sam took it as a hopeful sign.

John brought the car to an abrupt halt in front of a gas station with an attached convenience store. "I'm gonna fuel up, check the tires. You boys grab some dinner." He handed Dean a twenty.

Sam waited until his father had exited the car to make the face. "I'm sick of gas station sandwiches," he whined. "And why do I have to change schools again? What did you do?"

He regretted the way he'd phrased the last question the minute Dean turned around and he saw his brother's eyes. Haunted. Guilt-ridden. "Sorry, Sammy," his brother whispered before slipping out of the car.

 _Well, this sucks._ The only thing worse than Dean being mad at him was watching Dean wallow in guilt over something he had no control over. Sam tagged after his brother and tugged on his sleeve. "You okay?"

Something flitted across Dean's eyes then, sad and resigned, disappearing so fast that Sam almost missed it. He watched his big brother pull on the mask with effort, wishing hard that Dean believed him that he didn't expect his big brother to be perfect.

Dean thrust his shoulders back and tried to grin. It came out small and forced. "Dad's agreed to train me harder. It's gonna be great, Sammy. I get to drop out of school."

Sam swallowed over the lump in his throat. His father was driving a wedge between the brothers and Sam had no idea how to set things back to normal. Dean wanted to finish high school; Sam knew he did. Finish high school and open his own garage. They'd talked about it and it was one of the rare occasions when he'd seen his brother truly happy. _So why did he agree to this?_

"You're an idiot," Sam spat in frustration.

"Don't be such a little bitch. School is for nerds and geeks, Sammy." Dean tousled his little brother's long hair. "That's why you fit right in."

"Jerk." Sam pulled away and studied his brother. "You sure you're okay?" He placed a tentative hand on Dean's arm. A woman pushed past them into the store and gave them a curious look. Sam glared at her.

Dean closed his eyes briefly at the tender touch and nodded. "I threw up before," he admitted. "I almost passed out at school. Dad had to come because they saw the bruise and thought I was being abused."

Sam nodded. "That's why we have to leave?"

"And that's why I'm dropping out." Dean looked at Sam. "I want to hunt with Dad but I'm uncoordinated and bruise a lot." He gave Sam a weak smile.

"Dean, don't be stupid! Why can't you wait until you graduate -" At his brother's shake of the head, Sam sighed. "At least promise me you'll get your GED."

Dean shrugged, the mask firmly in place now. "If it matters that much to you," he said, with a forced casual air.

"It does," Sam said solemnly. "You matter to me, Dean."

His brother's green eyes broke wide open and Sam had to blink against the rush of love and affection his brother held for him. What came out of Dean's mouth, however, was, "You are such a girl, Samantha." _I love you, Sammy._

"Stupid jerk." _I love you, too, Dean._


	5. Not Broken

Not mine, don't own.

This story is loosely based on a couple of unhappy incidents in my life. Once again, my apologies to Dean for bearing the brunt of my psychological traumas. I promise a lifetime supply of pie.

My thanks to my awesome beta Fanpire101 for beta-reading.

I appreciate Book girl fan for leaving a comment on chapter 4. Thanks for reading!

Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own_.

* * *

Sam woke to a thin crack of light peeking out from under the closed door of the bathroom in their latest flea bag motel. He peered at the clock in the dim glow. 5 am. Too early for Dean to be up.

But a quick glance to the right confirmed that his big brother wasn't in bed. _How long has he been in the bathroom?_

Normally, Dean could putter around for half an hour or more before Sam even took notice. Living out of each other's pockets dictated a certain amount of sensory shutoff when it came to his brother.

Sam padded quietly over to the closed door. No sounds of retching, that was good. Dean had come home late from the bar last night, but not as late as Sam had expected, given the drooling barfly that had been hanging off his arm.

"Dean?" He poked open the door to find his brother staring at the mirror, green eyes wide. Sam thought he caught a glimpse of a tape measure in his brother's right hand. _What the -_ Thank God Dean was fully clothed or this would have been impossibly embarrassing, rather than just really awkward.

Dean's cheeks quickly flushed at having been caught out, but what he had been doing, Sam wasn't quite sure and he wasn't positive he wanted to know. With a deep sigh, he squinted at his brother and asked anyway. "What're you doing?" At Dean's pained expression, Sam added, "Is that ink on your face?"

His older brother pushed past him. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Samantha. Bathroom's all yours now." And Dean promptly flopped down on his bed and rolled over, effectively shutting Sam out.

* * *

Sam didn't think much of it until the next night. After a day of research - confirming that the little girl really had been buried in the garden and not in the cemetery like they'd hoped - Sam and Dean settled into a booth at a roadside diner.

"Dude," Sam whispered once they were seated. "What's with the sunglasses?"

Dean straightened the frames on his face and shrugged, throwing an arm over the low wall of the booth behind him.

Sam could feel his features contort into what Dean would deem a bitch face. "You never wear sunglasses indoors."

Dean raised one eyebrow over the shades. "Yeah, well, things change." His voice held an edge of anger.

Sam blinked at him. "You've always said that the only people who wear sunglasses indoors are blind people and douchebags."

Dean clenched his jaw at this comment but said nothing. The tension in his face brought to mind an image of Dean in the bathroom that morning, staring at his reflection with an ink pen and a tape measure. Sam felt his heart stop.

"She said something, didn't she? About your eye."

"Sam -" His brother's voice held more than a hint of anger now.

"That stupid bitch," Sam blurted out, right as the waitress came to take their order. At her wide, hurt gaze, he flushed a shocking shade of pink.

Dean smiled at their server, a lazy grin that hid whatever he was really feeling. "Two beers, please. And don't mind my brother. He wasn't talking about you." He winked at her; she gave him a quick smile before fleeing the table.

Dean regarded his brother. "Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth."

They sat in silence for a few minutes until the waitress returned with their beers.

Sam frowned at his hands, unwilling to give up the previous topic. "Dean. Are you okay?"

His brother gave him an incredulous look and took a long pull from the bottle. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you're acting weird."

Sam suspected that Dean was rolling his eyes, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses on.

"Take the sunglasses off," Sam ordered.

"No."

"Dean -"

His brother held up a hand. "We are not having this conversation. Just drop it."

* * *

Sam hadn't seen his brother this plastered in a long time. He himself had stopped at three beers after Dean had ordered an unending line of shots and proceeded to drink his way over to the pool table. It was rare for his brother to lose a game, even rarer for him to get stumbling down drunk.

Sam maneuvered Dean through the parking lot, leaned him up against the Impala, and keyed open the passenger door. Dean listed to the side immediately and Sam barely grabbed him in time to keep him from face-planting on the asphalt. Dean's sunglasses hung askew in the moonlight and his eyes looked impossibly wide and young.

Sam snatched the sunglasses from Dean's face as he shoved him into the car.

"Hey!" his brother protested.

Sam walked around the car, entered the driver's side, and put the key into the ignition before responding.

"Dean," he explained as patiently as he could, putting the car into reverse, "it's pitch black out. You don't need these." He tossed the sunglasses into the back seat, shifted into drive, and peeled out of the parking lot.

His brother made a dive for his shades, but Sam shoved him back into the passenger seat.

"Dean!" he ordered. "Just sit tight. We'll be home soon."

The older hunter slunk down in the bench seat and threw a hand over his right eye. Sam glanced over at him as he drove, frowning. "Does your eye hurt?" he asked.

"Don't look at me!" Dean snapped.

"... What?" Now Sam really stared at his brother. "What're you talking about?"

Dean shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself. "Gonna be sick, Sammy," he mumbled, and Sam had the car at the side of the road before Dean could even finish that thought.

Sam waited until the coughing and gagging had dwindled down to mild retching before he walked over and stood behind his brother, rubbing his shoulders.

"Here, Dean," he said, handing him a bottle of water. "You should rinse your mouth out."

Dean complied. After he'd rinsed, spat, and chugged half the bottle, he handed it back to Sam. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his green canvas jacket, he whispered, "Thanks."

Sam steered him back toward the car. "Come on, let's get you home."

Dean's hands flew to his face. "Where're my sunglasses?" he asked, panic clearly laced through the words. "I need my sunglasses." He pulled away from Sam and began to search the shoulder of the road.

"Dean!" Sam commanded. "I have them. They're in the car."

His brother looked up, relieved.

"But you don't need them at night, do you Dean?" Sam studied his brother's face, wondering what the answer would be.

"Always need 'em, Sammy. They're for blind people, right?" He gestured at his right eye. "And I've got this. And no one should have to look at this." He covered his blind eye with his right hand.

Sam honestly had no idea what the man was talking about. "Dean, your eye looks fine."

"Not fine," his brother replied, voice wavering. "It's broken."

Sam grasped both of Dean's arms in his, pulling his brother's hand away from his blind eye. "Dean, you are not broken."

His brother's green eyes were swimming with tears. "She wouldn't sleep with me, Sammy. Kept staring at my eye. Said it freaked her out the way it rolled around." Dean dropped his gaze and sniffed.

Sam swallowed hard at this rare show of vulnerability. "Hey," he said, pulling his brother close. "Don't you listen to her. She's a stupid, ignorant person who has no idea what it means to be broken." He released Dean. When his brother wouldn't look at him, Sam gently touched his brother's chin and forced Dean to meet his gaze. "You hear me? She's the one who's broken, not you."

Dean swallowed hard, looking at Sam with wide eyes, pupils blown. "But I measured my eyes, Sam. The right one isn't the same size as the left." He blinked unhappily.

Sam laughed. "Dean, everyone has body parts that are different sizes. My left foot is a half-inch longer than my right."

Dean stared at his brother's shoes. "No way!"

"Yes, way. Now get back in the car and let me drive you home, okay?"

His brother nodded. "Thanks for driving, Sammy."

"Any time, Dean."


	6. Giant Mutant Spiders From Hell (in 3-D)

I had one of those days yesterday. One of those truly sucky experiences that makes me feel different and weird and not-normal because of my blind eye. So... I committed fanfiction. Not beta'ed because I just needed to get this off my chest. My thanks to babyreaper for leaving a comment on the previous chapter.

Dean, as always, I owe you. I make a mean apple crumble and you are welcome any time.

Not mine, don't own. Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own._

* * *

Dean Winchester sat in the middle of a dirty, crowded theater with his little brother Sam, waiting for the movie to start. Both boys wore cardboard eyeglasses with one red lens and one blue lens.

Sam giggled. "You look silly, De'."

Dean thwapped his brother upside the head with a box of Milk Duds. "Look who's talkin', four-eyes." He took a long slurp of soda.

The theater was nearly empty on a Saturday afternoon, a bad sign for its future longevity. Bobby had slipped Dean some cash to entertain himself and Sam for a few hours while he shopped in town, purportedly to buy some new parts for Singer Salvage.

Dean couldn't help but wonder if the veteran hunter might be buying some supernatural supplies as well, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. _Giant Mutant Spiders From Hell (in 3-D)_ had been advertised during Saturday morning cartoons for the last three months and both boys wanted to see the giant arachnids fill the theater.

"I wish Dad was here," Sammy said, looking around at the stained seats.

Dean didn't, but he didn't say so to Sam. If Dad had been there, they wouldn't even be at the theater; they'd likely be running wind sprints in front of some fleabag motel. Dad had dumped them at Bobby's to follow a new lead in search of the thing that had killed their mother.

"If Dad was here, we wouldn't be drinkin' Cokes and eatin' popcorn," Dean reminded Sam.

Sam nodded back at his big brother and slurped soda through his red Twizzlers licorice, just like Dean had shown him.

Just then, the lights dimmed and the first previews began to roll. Both boys sat back in anticipation, wide grins on their faces.

* * *

"That was awesome!" Sam turned an eager smile to his big brother as soon as the credits began to roll. "What'd ya think, De'?"

Dean swallowed, trying hard to keep his lunch where it belonged. "'Was good," he mumbled.

Sam frowned, a little wrinkle forming in between his hazel eyes. "You didn't like it?"

Dean shrugged. "We need to go find Bobby. I'm sure he's wondering where we're at." The older boy swayed as he stood, but tried to pass it off by discretely clutching the nearest seat to retain his balance.

Sam tipped his head at his brother's actions. Floppy bangs fell into his face as worry scrunched his eyebrows. "De'? What's wrong?"

Dean swallowed again, trying to breathe deeply. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. "Nothing, Sammy. Let's go." He walked over to the recycling bin, concentrating hard on keeping his feet in a straight line, and threw in the colored 3-D glasses. Sam tailed after, chewing his lip.

* * *

Bobby met them just outside the theater exit, trucker hat on, a wide smile lighting his eyes. "So? How were the mutant spiders from hell, boys?"

Sam responded with expected enthusiasm. "They were great, Uncle Bobby! You shoulda seen 'em! Wham! Ka-pow!" Sam punched and karate-chopped the air, nearly hitting his brother's arm. "I don't think Dean liked 'em very much, though." The younger boy leaned conspiratorially toward Bobby and whispered loudly, "I think he's scared of spiders."

Dean rounded on his brother. "I'm not scared of those dumbass spiders!" He glared at Sam. "They were lame. Lame and stupid, just like you!" Dean wrapped his arms around his waist as if to tighten the flannel protectively around himself.

There was a moment where Sam simply stared at Dean, his mouth open in a little "o" of surprise. Then his brows lowered and he puffed up his chest and glared at his big brother. "I am not stupid!"

"Oh, I forgot. You're an idiot!" Dean sneered.

"You're a jerk!" Sam threw a punch in Dean's direction, but the older boy dodged it easily.

"And you're a prissy little bitch!"

"Boys!" Bobby collared both Winchesters and separated them before they could come to blows. Looking from boy to the other, he tried to gain some sense of the situation.

Clearly, something about the movie had upset Dean. The older boy stood apart from his brother, rubbing eyes that appeared a tad too shiny, wincing as if direct sunlight was causing him pain.

Sam's lower lip jutted out as he stared accusingly at Dean. He sniffed loudly, looking worse than if the older boy had simply kicked him. He had the saddest puppy dog eyes Bobby had ever seen, and one fat tear rolled down his cheek.

Bobby turned toward the younger Winchester. "Sam, I want you to wait over here for a minute. I wanna talk some sense into this brother 'o yours." He gestured at the curb of the sidewalk and Sam sat down reluctantly, still fuming at Dean.

Bobby tugged the older boy along by his flannel-clad elbow until they were well out of Sam's hearing range.

"Now, what in the Sam Hill's got your knickers in a knot, boy?"

Dean wouldn't meet the older man's eyes. He folded his arms and stared at his grubby sneakers. "Nothing, Bobby," he mumbled.

"Nothing, my ass, Dean! You never tear into Sam like that. You know better."

Dean looked up, green eyes shiny, squinting against the bright sunlight. He nodded, swallowing.

Bobby ventured a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You all right, son?"

Dean blinked and shook his head. "Headache," he whispered.

Bobby noticed Dean's right eye drifting; he tended to have trouble keeping his blind eye in line when he was sick or tired. And that's when the penny dropped.

"Oh, hell, boy," Bobby growled, pulling Dean roughly to his chest. "That 3-D stuff done made you sick, didn't it?"

Dean nodded against Bobby's chest. "I couldn't see the movie," he whispered. "Not really. It was all blurry." And then Dean was fighting tears, sniffing and hiccuping against Bobby's shoulder, something he rarely - if ever - did. "It's not fair!"

The old hunter's heart contracted with sympathy pains. "You're right, Dean. It ain't fair."

Bobby stood on a lonely street in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, one arm around his young charge, and let eleven-year-old Dean sob into his chest. He stroked Dean's dirty blond, spiky hair as the boy fought to regain control. "Just let it out, son."

All too soon, the older Winchester brother pulled away, wiping his puffy eyes with his sleeve. "You got any Advil?" he asked Bobby, squinting.

"We'll get some on the way home." Bobby curled an arm around Dean's shoulders and steered him over to where Sam was sitting on the sidewalk, knees drawn up, studying a line of ants.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean rasped, his voice husky from crying.

Sam looked up with worried puppy eyes. "What's wrong?"

Dean shrugged. "Headache." He thrust a hand out to his brother. "Sorry I took it out on you." Sam grabbed Dean's hand in both of his, and Dean pulled him up.

"That's okay, De'."

* * *

Bobby led the two boys back to the dilapidated truck he was driving this week and headed toward the nearest pharmacy. Dean listed toward the passenger side window, looking pale. Bobby left the boys in the truck when he went in to get Dean's medicine, giving strict orders to both of them to stay put.

After Bobby left, Sammy's voice wavered quietly through the silence. "I'm sorry the movie made you sick, De'."

"S'okay, Sammy," Dean said, tiredly.

Sam stuck his tongue between his lips, the way he did when he was thinking deeply about something. "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Could you put both lenses on your good eye? Would it work then?"

"What?" Dean asked, nonplussed. He lifted his head from the cool window to stare at his brother.

Sammy explained, excitedly, "We could take the blue lens from the right side and put it over the red lens on the left side and make purple and then you'd see in 3-D, right?"

Dean blinked back an unexpected prickle of tears. He swallowed hard before answering. "It won't work like that Sammy. I, uh ..." He bit his lip and blew out a breath. "I won't ever see in 3-D, Sam. My eyes don't work like yours. I couldn't see the movie, not like you could. It looked really weird to me and it made me sick to my stomach."

"I'm sorry, De'."

"No! Don't you say that," Dean growled. "Don't you ever say that, okay? I want you to see like normal people. It's just..." And here, Dean broke off, fighting tears of frustration and pain.

Sammy leaned forward in the cab. "What, Dean?"

"Tell me what it looked like."

* * *

And that was how Bobby Singer found his boys, twenty minutes and one long-ass line later: Dean in the front seat with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, Sam in the back reciting a vibrant blow by blow rendition of _Giant Mutant Spiders From Hell. In 3-D._

* * *

A/N: In my experience, today's 3-D movies aren't too bad for someone with one eye, but I remember having a similar reaction to Dean's when I was watching one as a kid.

Thanks for reading!


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